"'You Have A Sticky'"

She’s not home when I discover the violation but she'll be stressed when she finds out. And in light of the previous weekend’s lesson’s learned, it causes me great stress too. Because I know I have to follow through. This is punishment. This is punishment to be administered seriously and painfully, quickly and completely. This IS what domestic discipline is all about.

“You have a sticky”, I say. Those words are not music to her ears.
“Why-eeeeeee?!” is her immediate singsong-like response as she rushes to where I hang the small leather paddle on the wall in our bedroom. Sure enough there it is – a sticky. A sticky upon which is written the nature of the infraction. I can’t see her when she reads it. But I imagine the streak of fear that runs through her being. “Shit!” The disappointment that she has in herself races down the hall to my ears. She wants to be perfect. She strives to be perfect. And, so far, SHE'S been damn near perfect. But she fucked up this time. We have visited this infraction before. Did she brat? She says not. But I don't know. A subconscious brat? Perhaps. Likely just a temporary lapse in wisdom. "Damn!", I'm thinking. "We have plans for the evening". It's a week night. But I can’t put if off a day. A part of me wants to but we’re busy the next night too. It’ll have to be done when we get back. It’ll be late.

It’s a 30 minute drive home. The conversation is light and airy as we discuss the evening’s activities. As we draw closer to home her furrowed brow reveals her increasing anxiety. It reveals her awareness of her destiny. Other than a series of sighs, we roll the last 10 minutes in complete silence.

I need the silence too. Silence to engage the mixed feelings I have about what lies ahead. Silence to wrestle with the idea that I am going to spank, likely to tears, the woman – the person – I love more than anything in this entire world; the woman – the person – for whom I am responsible, to the best of my abilities, to bring happiness to; the woman – the person – to whom I am charged by God through holy matrimony, and by man through civil law with the protection of her well-being.

We pull into the parking space. It's our last moment of complete privacy until we enter our home. I turned toward the passenger seat and look into her worried eyes and say with a firm and steady voice,

“When you get inside I want you to remove all of your clothes.
“All of them. Do not leave a stitch of clothing on.
“ Take the paddle off of the wall, remove the sticky and meet me in the den”.
I remove only my coat but otherwise stay completely dressed.

“I wasn’t bratting. I want you to know that”, she offers solemnly.
“Do you know why you’re being spanked?” I ask while gesturing her into position over my knee.
She nods, settling in.
“Say the words", I say firmly. "Let me hear you”.
She speaks the offense. It would become a recurring refrain as we proceed.
“Push that ass up!” I command.
She pooks her roundness up into the air. I gently caress and knead her bottom trying to work out the chill of the night that has settled into her flesh.

This will be the hardest punishment yet. It’s intended to be. It has to be.
I tell her how many swats she’ll be getting. The first half over the knee; the second half standing, bent over the exercise bench, legs spread, on tippy toes and ass out. In this way she can begin with the end in mind. The inherent hope in the knowledge of the proceedings is designed to give her the strength to endure the pain. A pattern – scolds, the refrain of the offense and a chorus of sobs and tears – develop as I discharge my responsibility.

Her well-being is sure. Her happiness secure. My love? No question, pure.
Forsaking sex - she sleeps. She doesn’t have a sticky anymore.